by David Weber
Much of the city appeared to be in the same dilapidated condition. The walls were higher than Voitan's, but in even worse shape. Numerous parapets had fallen to lie in rubble at the base of the main wall, leaving gaps like broken teeth in the battlements, and in places the outer stones had worked out, exposing the rubble interior fill. One section was so badly damaged that it might as well have been called a breach, and they discovered even more signs of neglect once they entered the city proper.
The area immediately inside the gate was clear, but beyond that the city reared up the hill in a maze of alleys and tunnels. The houses were mostly built of stone, pink granite and blinding white limestone, erected in a crazy quilt of warrens, with one house on top of another in a widely varying mixture of styles and quality.
The main thoroughfare was wide enough for the passage of the company, but only barely, and the boulevard was lined with wide gutters which were joined by thin streams leading out of the alleyways. This lower section clearly wasn't the best place to live: the noisome stew in the streams which obviously provided the entire city's drainage was a noxious compound of fecal matter and rot that was practically explosive.
As they continued inward, the road presented a graphic cross-section of the city. The lower slopes showed the best quality of work, with well cut blocks of feldspar and gneiss cunningly fitted, mostly without mortar. The surfaces had been coated in white plaster, and the lintels and trim still showed signs of colorful paints. But now the plaster was patched and fallen, with caved-in roofs and shattered corners, and the once bright paint was pathetically faded in the blazing gray light. There were signs of flooding, as well, with brown high-water marks well up the sides of the houses. Many of the buildings were deserted, but shadows moved in some of the wreckage—furtive inhabitants who clearly only showed their faces under the friendly cover of night.
The quality of the stonework fell as the procession headed up the hill, but the upkeep improved. More houses were inhabited above the level of the floods, and the warren became truly mazelike, with houses piled on houses and built across alleyways which their floors turned into tunnels.
Business was being conducted in this labyrinth, but with a definitely desultory air. A few vendors lined the road with sparse offerings of half-rotten fruits, moldy barleyrice, cheap and poorly-made jewelry, and assorted minor knickknacks. The obvious poverty of the area was crushing, and the stench of rotting garbage and uncleaned latrines hung in the air as young Mardukans sat in doorways, scratching listlessly at the dust in the street.
The slums ended abruptly in a large square. Its downhill side was lined with tall townhouses which had apparently been carved out of the warren beyond at some time in the past. They fronted on a broad, flat, open area that was partially natural and partially Mardukan-made. The centerpiece of the square was a large fountain around the statue of an armed Mardukan, while the upper side of the square was occupied by a large ornamental building. The building seemed to climb—without a break, but in a myriad of differing styles—up to the citadel at the hill's summit. It appeared to be one vast palace, and a ceremony was in progress at its entrance.
It was apparently a public audience. The ruler of the city-state sat in a resplendent throne set up at the front door of the palace. As with the throne in Q'Nkok, this was made of many different inlaid woods, but the local monarch's throne was also set with precious metals and gems. The entire edifice gleamed with gold and silver and the twinkle of the local sapphires and rubies in their rough "miner's" cut.
The king was the first Mardukan the company had seen wearing any significant clothing, and he was garbed in a light robe of lustrous saffron. The outfit was slit down the sides, gathering only at the ankles and trimmed in bright vermillion. Traceries of silver thread ran through it, and the collar was a lace of silver and gems.
The monarch's horns had also been inlaid with precious metals and gems and were joined by a complex web of jewel-strung gold chains that caught the gray light and refracted it in a dull rainbow. As if all of that weren't enough, he also wore a heavy chain of jeweled gold around his neck, dangling far down his chest.
Arrayed to either side of the king were persons who were probably advisers. They were unclothed, except for one obvious commander in armor, but their horns were also inlaid and gemmed. The display was an obvious indication of rank, for it grew less expensive and spectacular in direct proportion to the owner's distance from the monarch.
About six hundred guards lined the steps at the front of the palace, standing at parade rest in two ranks. They were more heavily armored than the guards in Q'Nkok, with metal thigh-guards and bracers in addition to breastplates shining gray-silver in the clouded light. They carried the same long spear as the Q'Nkok guards, but they also wore palmate swords, about a meter in length, and despite their carefully polished breastplates, their purpose was obviously more than merely ceremonial.
The crowd before the monarch was a mixed bag. Most of them seemed to be from the Mardukan "middle class," to the extent that the planet had one. They also had decorations on their horns, but the displays were generally simple and made of base metals or brass. A few of the poorest of the poor were mixed in here and there, and it was one of them who was currently making some plea to the refulgent monarch.
The petitioner was in full prostration before the king, all six limbs splayed out as he abased himself. Whatever he was saying was unintelligible at this distance, but it didn't really matter, since the king was sitting half across his throne and paying virtually no attention to him.
As the company watched, the suppliant apparently finished whatever he was saying, and the monarch picked a kate fruit off a platter and nibbled on it. Then he threw the fruit at the petitioner and gestured to a guard.
Before the first protest could leave the unfortunate Mardukan's mouth, the guards had seized him and cut off his head. The head rolled to the edge of the crowd as the stump spurted a red spray and the body of the serf slumped into a twitching heap.
There was not a sound from the gathered Marshadans.
* * *
"We may have a problem here," Pahner observed.
"Oh, my," O'Casey said. A few months earlier, she probably would have lost her breakfast, but after Voitan, she was going to have a hard time finding anything that truly shocked her. "I agree."
"Well, if we turn around and leave," Roger said, "which is my first instinct, we will have a problem."
"Agreed," the captain said. "Stick to the prepared speech Your Highness. But I want the up squad right on you. Sergeant Major!"
"Captain?"
"Fall in the company in extended formation, Sergeant Major. I want a snappy movement. And drop the pig-stickers. Rifles and cannon front and center!"
* * *
The caravan devolved into an organized frenzy as the Marines prepared to "present" their noble lord to the local monarch. Roger, for his part, rehearsed his speech and checked his pistol, on the assumption that he was equally likely to need either of them.
"Credentials, credentials," O'Casey muttered, diving into the packs on the flar-ta called Bertha. Somewhere she had the now much travel-stained, vermillion-sealed documents of Roger's credibility, along with letters from the King of Q'Nkok and the new council of Voitan, but she hadn't expected to need them so soon. They'd assumed that they would have to deal first with a functionary just to find shelter, then the king—not the other way around.
"Snap it, snap it, snap it," Kosutic chanted subvocally. The change from a tactical formation to one intended for parade had to be made as cleanly and professionally as possible. Any trace of disorder would not only reflect poorly on the Regiment, but would create an opening. If you looked professional, it stopped nine out of ten fights before they started; the tenth, of course, was Voitan.
The post guide had found a mark, and the squad leaders fell in on her, with their squads in turn falling in behind them. On command, the company—less one squad, which was "tight" on the prince—deplo
yed in a double line facing that of the local guards. The Marines were pitifully few in number, but soon enough the locals would know what that pitiful few had accomplished at a place called Voitan.
Then let them get ideas.
* * *
Roger looked behind him into the unsmiling blue eyes of Sergeant Nimashet Despreaux.
"We've got to quit meeting like this. People will talk," he told her, but her demeanor didn't change.
"I'm on post, Sir. I'm not supposed to carry on a conversation."
"Ah." Roger turned back to the front and tugged at his braid as Pahner and O'Casey walked up to find him. "Sorry. I'll put myself on report."
"Ready?" Pahner subvocalized over the com.
"Bravo in position," Lieutenant Jasco replied almost as quietly.
"Inner team in position." Despreaux's voice was the ghost of a whisper at the back of Roger's head.
"Documents," O'Casey said, handing them to the prince.
"Then let's do it, Captain," Roger said calmly, and hid a silent snort of mental laughter. The presentation ceremony they were about to use was the same one they'd planned and rehearsed for Net-Hauling on Leviathan. The only difference was that the survivors of the company were on a hair trigger, and if anything went wrong he was hitting the deck at about Mach 3. Fifty-eight weapons would turn the square into an abattoir at the slightest sign of threat, and anything he personally might have added to the carnage would be purely inconsequential.
The group started forward in a slow, hieratic half-step which was used for only two purposes: formal presentations, and funerals. Since Marines did a lot more of the latter than the former, they referred to do it as "The Death March," which, in Roger's considered opinion, did not bode well in this circumstance.
The crowd before the throne parted to let them through. It was surprisingly silent; the only sound in the entire square was the slow tap of the humans' boots and the distant rumble of thunder.
Roger reached the sticky red stain where the previous petitioner had pled his case and stopped. He bowed deeply and held out the documents as the iron and shit smell of a fresh kill rose around him.
"Your Majesty, Great Ruler of Marshad and Voice of the People, I, Prince Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang MacClintock, of the House MacClintock, Heir Tertiary to the Throne of the Empire of Man, greet you in the name of my Imperial Mother, Her Majesty, Empress Alexandra MacClintock, Empress of Man, Queen of the Dawn, and Mistress of the Void."
Eleanora took the documents ceremoniously back from him and stepped forward and to the side. Dropping to both knees at the edge of the stairs, she held them out, hoping that one of these glittering idiots would figure out her purpose.
One of the advisers—a senior one, by the decoration of his horns—trotted down the steps and accepted the documents as Roger continued his speech about the magnificence of Marshad and its ruler, whose name he had yet to find out.
She backchecked the translation and winced. The program had reversed genders on Empress Alexandra, making her "Emperor Alexander," which was historically humorous but a pain otherwise. Eleanora locked that description in for this culture (they were never going to know the difference anyway), and checked the other gender settings. Sure enough, the program had reversed gender in the dialect. Fortunately, the translation glitch hadn't come up yet, so she suppressed a snarl and fixed it, then dumped the patch to the other toots and went back to listening to Roger's speech
" . . . bring joyous news: Voitan is restored! The Kranolta in all their fury came against us when we entered the fallen city, but that was a grave mistake. Aided by the forces of New Voitan, we defeated them in a terrible battle and destroyed their war host utterly. Even now the foundries and forges of fabled Voitan ring once more with the sound of forming metal! Soon the caravans will come once more on a regular basis. We are the first, but we shall not be the last!"
The prince paused in a planned break for the expected applause, but there was only a quiet murmur, and even that was almost instantly hushed. Roger was clearly nonplussed by the lack of reaction, but he carried on gamely.
"We are foreign emissaries on a voyage of exploration, and we are to be met by ships on a distant shore to the northwest. Thus we ask the boon of permission to pass through these lands in peace. We also wish to rest and enjoy the hospitality of your city, and we have brought rich booty from the conquest of the Kranolta which we wish to trade for supplies to continue our journey."
He bowed again as the king sat up. The entire company tensed, although an outside observer might have been pardoned for not realizing that it had, as the saffron-clad monarch leaned forward and examined the documents. After a brief, whispered consultation with one of his advisers, concentrating on the letter from the King of Q'Nkok, the monarch clapped his hands in agreement and stood.
"Welcome, welcome, Your Highness, to the land of Marshad, you and all your brave warriors! We have heard of your exploits in defeating the Kranolta and raising Voitan to its ancient and honorable place! In Our name, Radj Hoomas, King of Marshad, Lord of the Land, We welcome you to Marshad. Rest here as long as you like. A place has been prepared for you and your great warriors, and there shall be a great feast in your honor tonight! So We declare! Let there be merriment and celebration, for the way to Voitan is open once more!"
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
"I don't think I understand your reasoning, Sir." Lieutenant Jasco shook his head and gestured around the sumptuous quarters the officers had been given. "They certainly seem friendly enough."
"So does a spider, Lieutenant," Pahner replied. "Right before it eats a fly."
The room was paneled in blond wood, the pale grain cut to expose abstract swirls. The floor was covered in cushions a shade or two darker than the wood, most of them piled to one side, and the single window revealed a breathtaking view of the city and the river, with a glimpse of Pasule and the vast stretch of cultivated land beyond.
All in all, it was a pleasant place. Now if they could just decide whether or not it was a prison.
"We've been dealing with Mardukans for a while now," Roger said. "They're not the gentlest people in the galaxy, but they have more regard for life than we saw this morning."
"Roger is correct," O'Casey said. "This town, the whole local culture, appears atypical. And the focus of that would seem to be Radj Hoomas." She fingered the silken cover of the pillow on which she sat. "Dianda. Everywhere you look, you see this flaxsilk. All the fields, throughout the citadel. I bet if we peeked behind doorways, we'd find that everyone is weaving the stuff."
"Well, okay," Jasco said. "But that doesn't necessarily mean there's anything wrong. There have been plenty of societies where everyone was a weaver, or whatever. It doesn't make this culture evil."
"No, but it does make it dangerous," Pahner said definitively. "We need to back off from thinking like Marines and start thinking like bodyguards again."
Cord nodded in a gesture he'd picked up from the humans.
"A monarch like this Radj cares only about himself and his needs. And this atul has obviously been in power long enough to put his stamp on the entire kingdom."
Pahner nodded back at the shaman and looked at Kosutic.
"What are the major assassination methods?"
"You think he's going to try to assassinate Prince Roger, Sir?" Jasco asked. "Why?"
"Maybe not Roger," the sergeant major rasped, "but if he thinks there's some profit to be made from killing the guards and taking Roger hostage, he might try." She looked at the ceiling and began ticking methods off. "Poison, bomb, hand, knife, smart-bot, close-shot, long-shot, heavy weapon, weapons of mass destruction."
"This society has hand, poison, and knife," Pahner said. "So we need to concentrate on those."
"We already have analyzers," Roger pointed out, "they'll pick up poisons."
"If they come at us with swords, we respond with guns," Jasco said.
"And if they come at you with knives?" the sergeant major asked with a
grim smile. "En masse, from every side? What then, Lieutenant?"
"Exactly." Pahner turned to O'Casey. "You're going to be handling point on the negotiations again. Make sure they're aware that Roger has to have," he paused and thought for a moment, "seven guards at all times. Seven is a mystic number to us humans. Not to be trifled with. So sorry if that's a problem."
"Okay," Eleanora said, making a note on her toot.
"I don't trust him as far as I could throw Patty," Roger said.
"Why not, Your Highness?" Jasco asked, perhaps just a trifle more dismissively than he really ought to have spoken to the Heir Tertiary to the Throne of Man. "They've given us everything we wanted on a silver platter, and no wonder. I mean, obviously, they're happy they'll be getting the Voitan trade back. Look at the slums we passed through on the way up."
"That's exactly why," Roger said quietly. "Look, I might have been a clotheshorse. Well, still am," he amended with a chuckle, looking down at his stained chameleon uniform. "But," he continued seriously, "it wasn't the same as this place. Right down the hill from us there's crushing poverty. In case you didn't notice, most of those kids were literally starving. And the guy who should be working on fixing that is sitting on his ass at the top of the heap, sucking on fruit, having his horns inlaid, and cutting peasants' heads off. And there are all these fields where food could be grown, but it isn't. They're being planted in flaxsilk. So the people are starving, and I don't think that that's the farmers' plan. I think it's the plan of the son-of-a-bitch we're about to have a 'Victory Dinner' with." The prince's jaw flexed in anger, and his nostrils twitched as if they'd scented something foul. "So that, Lieutenant, is why I don't trust that Borgia son-of-a-bitch."
"Seven guards, Chief of Staff, Sergeant Major," Pahner said emphatically. "Fully armed. Especially at this 'Victory Party.' And extra especially," he added dryly, "after all the trouble 'our friend' the monarch went to making sure we came here."
